


La Victorie est à Nous

by pricingham



Series: d'amour ou d'amitié [2]
Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Antisemitism, Canon Era, Character Death, Child Abuse, Jewish Character, M/M, Pre-War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2018-12-22 06:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11961291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pricingham/pseuds/pricingham
Summary: A look into LeFou and Gaston's relationship during the invasion of the marauders and the famous war.I'll try to update it daily but I can't promise anything, especially with school starting.Each year equals two chapters, except for 19, where there'll be 3.





	1. 16

He woke up with a startle. In his dream something like a gun had gone off.

Gaston sat up and rubbed his eyes. His mouth felt incredibly dry so, naturally, he got off his bed and walked downstairs for a glass of water. Then he heard it. The gun of his dream. But, while the gun was still very much a gun, this was definitely not a dream.

“Gaston?!”

He stood in his nightgown, feet uncovered on the stairs, hair disheveled, as his mother yanked at his arm and pulled him close. “Maman?”

She shushed him and hurried him to his bedroom. “I want you to dress up, alright?”

He frowned, confused, but nodded and did as told. “What's wrong? What's happening?”

“Villeneuve, it's under attack, your father has gone to get us a gun and we're leaving as soon as he gets here with Henri and Armand,” she explained, dressing Gaston up with his jacket and messily tying his hair back.

“What?” he breathed. “Leaving to where?”

“I, I don't know. Your father will take care of that.”

His frown vanished and was replaced with a look of pure fear. “What about LeFou?! He's, he's all alone! He'll die! Maman, he can't die!” Gaston was shaking now, his eyes brimming with tears.

“Gaston, there's no space on the horses—”

“There is! You can go with father and LeFou can go with me!”

She shushed him again and sat him down. “Be quiet. They'll find us.”

“Who? Who's attacking us, even?”

“Your father thinks they're marauders.”

“Why would— Why can't we fight back? I'm old enough! I know how to shoot and everything!” he urged in a whispered exclamation. “I could fight with father!”

“It's not safe. You're just a little boy.”

“No! No, I'm not! I'm sixteen! I can fight!”

His mother sighed deeply, brushing loose strands of Gaston's hair back. “We'll see when your father's home.”

Gaston groaned and let himself fall back against the wall, hand tapping restlessly against his leg. “What if he's dead?” he murmured.

“Gaston,” she chided. “Your father is _not_ dead.”

“Then he left _us_ for dead.”

“Stop saying such things. Your father isn’t a bad man.”

“Then why does he hit us?!”

She closed her mouth. Their eyes stayed locked before she closed them and shook her head.

“What lie do you tell your friends?”

“Be quiet. Be quiet, he loves us.”

“He beats me when he's drunk,” Gaston spat. He was so tired of it. “He hurts you because you exist!”

“He loves us,” she repeated, shaking her head.

Gaston huffed and got up, looking out of his window. His frown dropped and his eyes widened when he saw a couple of men bursting open a familiar looking door. “No,” he whimpered. “No, no, no.” He shook from head to toe and his breath caught in his throat. LeFou's house; they were going to hurt him. Without a word to his mother, he flew down the stairs, almost falling, and searched for his small gun. A gift from his father. He quickly checked if it was loaded and then ran as fast as his legs managed — which was actually a quite lot — to LeFou's house. (He had moved closer to Gaston when Gaston got sick and had nearly died, only a few months ago.)

He ran inside, not caring if the marauders heard him or not. He had to save LeFou. His father might had left his loved ones behind, but Gaston would never.

His head turned quickly to LeFou's room, pleads coming from it. He opened it slowly and aimed at the head of one of the men. Taking a deep breath, he placed his index finger on the trigger. It was just like hunting, he told himself as he fired.

All the men, including a small and frightened LeFou, turned to the door that now opened completely. Gaston stood in the middle, smoke leaving the barrel of his gun. “Leave him. Or I shoot.” He pointed the weapon at the man closest to LeFou.

Gaston glanced quickly at the other two marauders. One of them held a sword in poor use and the other carried a gun, only slightly bigger than Gaston's. “ _Fazes o quê_?”

Gaston opened his mouth, frowning. He could barely understand the man's language. He did, however, understand the first and last words, something similar to their “do” and “what”. “I shoot,” he repeated, hand flexing around the gun.

The marauder that spoke to him — a 40-something year old man with a missing tooth and a scar over his lip — grinned. Gaston hated it. “ _Tu_ shoot _e ele mata aqui o teu_ friend.” The other man, much younger, put his sword to LeFou's neck.

Gaston held back a whimper. He closed his eyes, a tear falling unbidden. He opened them when he heard someone say, “ _Larga o rapaz_ ,” in an accent. His face lit up when he looked over and saw Tom threatening the man with a rifle. “ _Agora_.”

The older man looked over and nodded. The other let go of LeFou and Gaston went to him, gun in his breeches. “Are you hurt?”

LeFou trembled in his hands and moved to hug him tightly, face hidden in Gaston's shoulder. “No,” he finally replied in a murmur.

Gaston sighed and smiled, hand running up and down his back. “You're safe now. I'm here.”

“No, Dick, let them be! Just take their weapons!” Gaston turned around, as Tom walked inside and put down his rifle. “Did they take anything from you, LeFou?”

“No. Just threatened me and scared me.”

Tom nodded and gave him an encouraging smile. “You were good, Gaston.”

“What were you speaking?” Gaston asked, frowning.

“Portuguese,” Tom said. “My grandmother was from Portugal, she taught my mother to speak it who then taught me.”

Gaston nodded and turned back to LeFou.

“Can you take that man away?” LeFou asked. “I don't want him in my room.”

Tom nodded at Gaston to help him but LeFou’s grip tightened.

“Don't leave, please.”

Gaston smiled softly at him and kissed him on the forehead quick. “I won't. Ever.”

“I'll get Dick and we'll get that monster out of your room,” Tom told him.

LeFou nodded, murmured a thanks, and turned back to Gaston. “You're my savior.”

He laughed. “Oh, come now. Anyone could have done that.”

“But they didn't,” LeFou reminded, as he played absent-mindedly with Gaston's hair. “You're my hero. You always have been,” he added, looking into Gaston's eyes.

Gaston absorbed the praise with a smile. “Well,” he started, “I'm a great hero.”

LeFou giggled. “You are.”

Gaston got up and LeFou did as well. “You should dress yourself up,” he told him as he opened LeFou's closet. LeFou didn't nod or concur, he simply leaned in and began picking his clothes. Gaston didn't intend to stare, he _didn't_. But there was something almost hypnotizing about the softness of his friend's arms and gut and thighs— His cheeks flared and he looked away immediately when LeFou looked back at him.

“I'm good.”

Gaston almost replied with a whispered “As always” but contained himself. Instead, he gave LeFou a nod and wrapped his hand around LeFou's wrist. “Let's head outside.”

There, Dick awaited them, as well as Tom and both their fathers. And Gaston’s parents. His grip on LeFou's wrist tightened when he saw the monumental man that was his father; the fire in his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “LeFou was in danger, I couldn't leave him behind.”

His father gave him nothing but a slow nod. It was enough for Gaston to nearly break into tears. No response from his father was almost as bad as an actual reply. It only meant the worst was yet to come.

“Please, let me stay here and fight,” Gaston said, a small hint of begging to his voice. LeFou looked at him. Gaston wasn't exactly known to beg, let alone do it in front of more than one person. “I shot a man dead, I think I'm qualified to stay and fight with you.”

His father scoffed. “You won't survive a week.”

Gaston's fist clenched, as did his jaw. “I will. I'll survive as many weeks as this invasion takes.”

“...We'll see. I'm not going to discuss this in front of others.” With that, he left.

Gaston crudely wiped his tears to his arm and sniffed. LeFou put a hand to his cheek, making Gaston turn to him. “I'll stay and fight with you.”

Gaston blinked. “Wh— no. No, LeFou, it's too dangerous.”

His hand traveled down to grasp at Gaston’s. “Gaston LeGume,” he said and for a moment Gaston thought he was about to propose, “when we're together, we win. We make it. You'll be safer with me by your side, like I will be safer with you by mine.”

Fuck, Gaston was in _love_. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Okay, you're right.”

LeFou gave him a grin and for the first time Gaston noticed the small gap between his front teeth. It was adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tom is now 1/4 portuguese (i think? i dont have math anymore,) bc yyeah his full name is tomás now  
> Translation (jic it's needed):  
> Fazes o quê? - You do what?  
> Tu shoot e ele mata aqui o teu friend. - You shoot and he kills your friend here.  
> Larga o rapaz. - Let go of the boy.  
> Agora. - Now.


	2. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm gna go back and edit the chapters so that their title is Gaston's age -- LeFou is a few months younger than Gaston so he's either the same age or one year less  
> also: it's tragic backstory time (i jst had to come up w a story for the lil scar in his chin bc that's not a cleft it's a Scar im telling u ive been staring at luke evan's face long enough to Know)  
> that being said warning for child abuse, gaston gets hit and the backstory includes slight verbal abuse

Gaston sat amongst the trees with LeFou, both with a rifle in hand. They were in charge of watching, although Gaston wasn't sure of what _exactly_ they were watching and he thought it was more of a code his father used for “get out of my way”.

Or he did until he saw movement in Villeneuve.

A couple of days prior the men fighting had urged women and children to leave to Aulnoy, a town nearby, safe from there. So it could only be the marauders.

Without a word, he got up and LeFou followed. Gaston's father sat by a fire, men sitting alongside him, laughing and drinking.

“There was movement in the village,” Gaston said, voice a bit louder so he could be sure his father would hear.

Instead of a “thank you” or something as simple as a nod, he got a glare from him. Then he got up, hovering over Gaston who, even though he was about his father's height, felt like a small child. “Did I ask you to report?” he asked, breath reeking of alcohol.

“Well, no, but… They could attack us,” he said slowly, careful not to anger him.

“Did I ask you to report, yes or no?”

Gaston took in a breath. “No.”

“Then leave.”

Gaston's grip around the rifle tightened, his heart hammering in his chest, as he watched his father walk to get yet another beer. “They'll attack us and we'll die if you keep staring and drinking. We have to do something!”

His father nodded and then put his stein down. Then, slowly, he walked up to Gaston and put a hand to his shoulder, nails digging into his jacket. “Did I ask you for any advice, son?”

“...No.”

“Then shut up,” he growled. “Don't tell me how to do my job.” He let go of his shoulder, pushing Gaston backwards and making him lose his footing.

Gaston fell a bit back but got back on his feet quickly with the help of the rifle. He was angry, borderline furious. “Why not?! You don't know how to! You're going to get us all killed!”

The slap was so quick Gaston wouldn't have been able to tell it had happened if it wasn't for the burning sensation on his cheek. Quick but hard. He pressed his lips together, avoiding crying out in pain. His eyes were tightly shut and he took in deep breaths. _Don't cry in front of all these people. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry._ He choked back tears and opened his eyes, locked them with his father's. The hatred in them was overwhelming. “Go to your tent.”

Gaston left, letting his rifle fall and clenching his fists. Ignoring LeFou's calls of his name, he ran into the woods, punching and kicking every tree in his way. He fell to his knees in front of a small lake.

Gaston hyperventilated, hands shaking and his fingers becoming numb. He could barely feel the tears that spilled as he sobbed and picked at his breeches with his nails.

Leaning in, he looked at his reflection. His eyes looked puffy and his hair was falling half in his face, and his cheek was red. He touched it with trembling fingers and pressed at the bruise blooming there. It'd turn purple and black in about a week. Gaston groaned. He never knew what to say when people asked him about his bruises, much less now when so many men had seen it happen.

The hand that touched his cheek withdrew and clenched into a fist that Gaston dug in the water in a punch. And then another. And another and another.

“You're nothing!” he yelled at his shaking, almost distorted reflection. “You're less than nothing! You're shit under my heel and I hate you!” A punch, straight to his reflection's nose. “You'll amount to nothing and you'll always be a worthless little shit that deserves every,” another punch, “little,” one to the ground, “bad,” a slap to the lake, “thing that has happened to you! ...You should have died! And you should have taken your mother with you and then I'd be happy!”

He fell backwards, his anger starting to fade. With a sigh he sat up, then blew his nose to a small handkerchief his mother had given him before leaving to Aulnoy. He frowned when he noticed blood on the small cloth.

“Great,” he said, before wiping his nose again. Less blood this time. “Stupid fuck,” he murmured to his reflection, now stained with blood as he washed the rag.

“Gaston?”

He froze before turning around slowly. LeFou stood there, with a small thing in his hands. “What do you want?” he asked, turning back to his rag.

“I wanted to see if you were okay,” he replied, sitting by Gaston.

“You saw what happened, what do you think?”

“...That you deserve better.”

Gaston couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped his lips. _Him_? Deserving better? In what world was LeFou living in? And he asked him exactly that.

“The same as your own.”

“No! No, you're not!” he snapped. “My world is _that_ , LeFou! What do you know about me ‘deserving better’?! I'm nothing, alright? I've… I've always been nothing,” he murmured, twisting the rag and wiping his nose again.

“That's not true. You're—”

“Nothing! Alright, I'm a stupid fuck that should have died when I had the chance!”

LeFou jumped back, mouth open to speak. Under Gaston's angry gaze, he closed it. “...Can you tell me what you mean by that?” he tried, voice soft, as he shuffled closer.

Gaston sighed and put the rag away. “When I was three years old, I _think_ , I went with my family to the river. The one you saw me by that night.” He wet his lips and swallowed. “I drowned. Or, or I almost… drowned, I suppose. Hit my face on a rock and passed out,” he explained further before pointing at a small scar in his chin. “It's how I got this. Anyway, I was saved by my mother. She threw herself in the river, not knowing how to swim, to save me from death. She did it but my father resents us so he says… He says we should have died that day.”

“I'm sorry.”

Gaston shook his head and sniffed. “No, I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell.”

“It's okay,” LeFou said as he handed Gaston the small rag.

Gaston hissed. “It’s cold.”

“It’s for your cheek.”

“Oh.” Gaston turned to LeFou and gave him a small smile, placing the cloth against his hurt cheek. “Thank you.”

“It's what friends are for.”

Gaston sighed, then nodded. “Again, I'm sorry I yelled and everything. I don't… I don't want you to think I'm like him.” Gaston didn't specify who ‘he’ was, but he was sure LeFou was smart enough to figure out by himself. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“I don't think you have it in you to hurt me.”

“You don't know that.”

“No. But I have a feeling about it. You like me,” he said with a shrug. “People don't hurt those they like.”

Gaston frowned slightly but nodded. “Just… Promise that if I ever start treating you badly, you'll leave. Okay?”

They stared at each other, Gaston with his pleading eyes and LeFou with his, soft and tender and loving. “I promise. Although, I doubt it'll happen.”

“I don't care, LeFou. ...I care about you. I want you safe and with someone who treats you well.”

“But that's you,” LeFou said with a small push, a smile to his face. “You keep me safe.”

Gaston blinked at him and, despite the freezing rag to it, he could feel his cheeks heat up. “I do?”

“You killed a man so I'd be alright, you definitely do.”

Gaston smiled. It turned into a grin and, in no time, LeFou was grinning as well. Gaston's heart skipped a beat. “You make me feel safe.”

“I wouldn't want anything else for you,” LeFou told him, hand on Gaston’s hair. “Can I tie your hair?”

Gaston nodded and held back a sigh as he felt LeFou's warm hands travelling up his arm and to his shoulders. They kneaded them a bit before untying the brown ribbon from Gaston's hair, letting it fall in dark curls on his shoulders.

“You should get a ribbon in black. It'd match your hair.”

Gaston hummed. He closed his eyes as LeFou brushed his hair with his fingers carefully and thoroughly. He didn't complain when LeFou pulled too hard and smiled to himself as he opened his eyes when he gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“All done.”

Gaston smiled at him and looked at the lake. Turning his head left and right, he admired the pretty hairstyle LeFou had given him. “I like it!”

LeFou bent his head, flustered, and let out a soft laugh. “I'm glad.”

Gaston put the cold kerchief down and moved to pull LeFou into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he murmured against his shoulder.

“For tying your hair?” LeFou asked, confused, as he moved to hug Gaston back.

Gaston laughed, chest heaving slightly. “No. I mean, that too. …For everything, LeFou.”

“Well, it's nothing.”

“It’s everything to me,” Gaston confessed in a whisper, pulling LeFou closer.


	3. 17

After the men of Villeneuve saved the town from the marauders, everything seemed to be alright. That is, until the Prince himself walked into the village in a busy Monday morning.

“Portugal has… declared _war_ on us,” he had said and Gaston had had to contain himself from rolling his eyes. The Prince was so holier-than-thou it had made Gaston sick. Or, at least, until he had stepped off his horse and had walked towards Gaston. “I heard you helped significantly with the marauders.”

Gaston had nodded once. “Me and my f—”

“You’re young,” — Gaston had sneered, the Prince was definitely younger than _him_ —, “but you’ll do… I name you Captain Gaston of Villeneuve,” he had said with a flourish of his hand. “Try and win this war, now.”

Gaston’s eyes had widened and he had grinned. “Yes, sir! Ma’am! I mean, Your Majesty.”

That had been ten months ago.

 

Now Gaston stood in the ranks, rifle in hand as his heart pounded in his ears and he fired relentlessly against the enemy. A cannon went off and, instinctively, Gaston ducked and protected his head. Then another cannon and Gaston stood still, praying so he wouldn’t die. He couldn’t die, he had promised his men he would protect them and save Villeneuve and— The cannons stopped. He got back to his lying position, breathing fast enough for his head to feel definitely too light.

Men lied dead next to him and Gaston tried his best to ignore the milky eyes staring at him with blood pooling at the corners of their mouths. He failed, only to be shot in the shoulder. A couple of soldiers helped their captain up and got back to battle when Gaston told them, politely, to “Fuck off!”

Hand gripping his wounded shoulder, blood staining his fingers and jacket, he walked into the doctor’s tent. “Oh, if it isn’t great Captain Gaston!” his father laughed from a bed. He had been shot in the leg and Gaston, admittedly a bit stupidly, had saved him from bleeding out to death.

“Nobody asked you anything, _Pierre_ ,” he growled back before turning to the doctor and showing him the wound. “Can you patch me up in about… ten minutes?”

“I’ll need to take the bullet out, so I might need around an hour,” said the doctor, an elderly man with a bushy mustache.

Gaston let out a breath. He looked around, looking for the closest bed. Ten meters away from his father. He smiled and nodded over to it. The doctor glanced over at Gaston’s father and followed his captain.

Surely enough, within an hour the job was done. Gaston felt dizzy due to the loss of blood and pain, though the whiskey to reduce the latter must had been related as well, but managed to sit up and get on his feet. Walking was easy, he just had to blink repeatedly, but doing anything that required one single muscle in his left arm to stretch was absolute hell. And so he complained to LeFou as he sat down at his desk.

“Well, perhaps you should stop trying to move it,” LeFou scolded him as Gaston reached for a bottle of brandy. He got up and poured him some of the drink into a small glass. “This better be for the pain.”

Gaston paused, the glass leaning into his bottom lip. “Why else would it be?” he asked, then drank the whiskey in one gulp.

“Well,” LeFou started, closing the bottle, “you have what some would call a “drinking problem”.”

Gaston scoffed and placed the glass back on the desk. “I do _not_. What I have, LeFou, is a hurt shoulder and stress.”

“I’m just worried,” LeFou spoke after a moment of silence. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

Gaston stared at LeFou for a while before looking away with a sigh. “And why do you care?”

“You’re my best friend, Gaston. I’ve always cared. …Have you at least been eating?”

“Yes.”

LeFou nodded. “That’s good.” Gaston looked over at him, finding him playing absentmindedly with his cuff. Without a warning, a wave of guilt flood over him. LeFou deserved better than this, he deserved better than cannons and bullets and fear.

Gaston got up and walked up to him, LeFou falling back a bit. He was shorter than Gaston now, and Gaston made sure he knew that with the occasional joke. When he spoke, however, that wasn’t what left his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

LeFou blinked at him, frowning. “You’re… sorry?”

Gaston nodded. “You should leave. War, I mean. Go to a safe place and when this is all over you could come back,” he said with a small smile, pulling softly at LeFou’s jacket lapels. “How does that sound? I can give you money.”

“Gaston,” he said softly, smiling up at him. “I don’t need that.” LeFou pulled Gaston’s hand down, kissing him on the cheek quick. “And I appreciate, _a lot_ , how you’re so concerned with me, but you need me here. You do.”

Gaston took in a breath. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” he confessed, not moving his hand from LeFou’s gentle grip. “I’ve seen about a _hundred_ corpses this month alone; I don’t want one of them to be you.”

LeFou grinned at him, bowing his head, overwhelmed with Gaston’s thoughtfulness. He let go of Gaston’s hand and hugged him. “I won’t. Like I told you, Gaston,” he said, withdrawing and leaving his hands by Gaston’s sides, “when we’re together, we win.”

Gaston nodded, putting his now free hand to LeFou’s cheek. “We’re _Le Duo_ ,” he whispered, more to himself than to LeFou.

“We are.” LeFou’s reply was breathless and in no time Gaston was kissing him. For both men’s surprise, it was LeFou who withdrew. “Woah, okay. Hum…” He let out a nervous laugh.

Gaston blinked at him before realizing what he had done and pulling his hand back. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“No. No, it’s okay. You just… Haven’t done that in a while,” he said, stammering a bit.

“Yeah,” Gaston said. “I really haven’t… I don’t think it’ll repeat itself, I apologize.”

Sadness flashed over LeFou’s face and Gaston blinked, remembering that night in the woods when they had decided _that_ didn’t need a name. “It’s okay,” LeFou said with a smile. “I don’t mind it either way, really.”

Gaston nodded and sat back down. LeFou spoke but Gaston wasn’t listening, simply stared at his folded hands, trying to ignore the pain jolting through his arm. He glanced at him occasionally, his heart seemingly growing with fondness.

He was in love, he knew that now, but he still lied to himself. Perhaps — no, _definitely_ , — what he did with LeFou, the kisses and the hugs and the comforting, had nothing to do with being in love.


	4. 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major warning for child abuse if you're easily upset by it i'd heavily suggest you to wait a couple of days until i update the fic stay safe guys

 

When Gaston walked into his tent from battle, exhausted and with blood and dirt on his boots and clothes, he was expecting to find LeFou there. Untouched. Instead, Gaston found him cowered on his bed, and his father sitting at his desk, hands on Gaston’s papers. “What are you doing?” Gaston asked, hand resting on his sword’s handle. When he got no reply besides even more shuffling, he repeated, “What are you doing?!”

“Don’t shout at me,” his father said, getting to his feet with the help of a wooden crutch. “Your friend did and now he got a little something to show off, don’t you, you crazy shit?”

Gaston glanced at LeFou who shrunk under the insult. He should have talked to his father, gotten him out, taken care of LeFou. But this was Gaston. And Gaston was completely explosive when it came to anger. _Especially_ when it was related to his friend’s well-being, LeFou above all the rest.

“With a name like that, he should have expected it, no?” he joked and it was the last drop. Gaston punched him in the nose, making him fall back.

“Get out, of my tent, _now_!” he ordered, his father leaning against his desk. “I don’t care whatever you do to me! You could _kill_ me for all I care!” Gaston shouted, rough voice filling the tent, with a kick to his father’s hurt leg. “But you do _not_ hurt my friends! You do _not_ hurt LeFou!”

His father looked absolutely pathetic, lying on the floor with a hand to his nose and the other digging into the soil. Gaston couldn’t help the smile that creeped onto his face at the sight of tears in his eyes.

“Get out,” he repeated, voice steadier than before but still trembling.

He watched as his father got to his feet, blood staining his lips and hand. “Gladly,” he replied. Gaston held back a sigh of relief. He choked on it when his father’s crutch hit his stomach. “You’re nothing,” he told Gaston, free hand moving to grip at his hair and forcing him down on his knees. Gaston barely even felt his head slamming against the edge of desk, too focused on trying to breathe. “Know your place, both of you. Being captain doesn’t mean you’re worth anything.”

Gaston gasped for air and moved to get up, wincing when he felt a hand on his back. He softened when he heard that familiar soft voice speaking. “It’s me. You’re okay.”

Gaston, completely ignoring his bruised nose, turned to LeFou and began searching for the bruise his father left him. He found it by his eye, deep purple. “I’m so sorry he hurt you. I’m sorry you had to see that. He shouldn’t have touched you, I’m sorry, LeFou:”

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re hurt, you need to lie down.”

“No, no, stop. Stop. Stop prioritizing me, please. You’re hurt, too.”

“Gaston—”

“LeFou! Please, just this once, let me take care of you,” he said, hands shaking, tears in his eyes. LeFou, who looked at Gaston with pity in his eyes, nodded once and sat down on his bed again. “Thank you.” Gaston joined him after getting a small wooden box his mother had left there. He wiped LeFou’s tears first, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. Then his lip, that had been split open. LeFou hissed and Gaston mumbled a sorry. “...I never meant for you to be hurt,” he told him, hand in LeFou’s curls, fingers massaging his scalp. LeFou sighed and leaned into his touch.

“I know.”

Gaston’s hand moved to hold LeFou close and he kissed his temple again. He could smell his hair and let his eyes slip close. He apologized again when a sob escaped his lips.

“Gaston, hey.” LeFou turned to him and cupped his cheeks. “It’s okay. You can cry.”

Gaston sobbed again, trying to stop the tears. He didn’t deserve the pity and the care LeFou was giving him. He didn’t deserve LeFou. “Stop,” he sobbed. “Stop.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, because I don’t… deserve it, I suppose.”

LeFou sighed and made Gaston lock eyes with him. “You’re not the person your father tells you you are. I know you, Gaston. And I know you deserve good things. You deserve happiness and, and love. You deserve _me_. And you deserve your mother. And Tom, and Dick, and even Stanley. You deserve all the friends you have and all the people who love you.”

Gaston closed his eyes and nodded. “But… LeFou, you deserve good things, too. You deserve more than comforting me all the time. You deserve to be comforted, too.”

“I know. And you already have.”

Gaston looked at him. “I want the best for you… Are you sure you don’t want to leave?”

“Yes, Gaston. Like I said before, you need me. And, even though I might not admit it, I need you, too.”

“Christ, LeFou, you’re the best,” Gaston blurted out with a laugh. A joyful, robust, _real_ laugh. LeFou grinned at him, so wide the corner of his eyes crinkled and Gaston forgot about the pain in his nose and his slight headache as he grinned back.

“ _You_ are. The bestest.”

“I don’t think that’s a word.”

“You made it one,” LeFou said with a shrug.

Gaston laughed again and hid his face on LeFou’s shoulder, hugging him tight. Soft arms wrapped around him and Gaston sighed. If he could have, he’d have spent his days like that. Wrapped in LeFou’s arms, fighting back tears because he Loved this man with his whole being.

And, although he didn’t say it, he hoped LeFou knew.


	5. 18

Gaston hated his father. Gaston _hated_ his father. _Gaston hated his father_. Or so he told himself as he saw the man who had raised him (albeit poorly) get shot in the stomach. And then again in the chest.

Gaston dropped his rifle in shock and ran to him. “Father? Papa?”

“Gaston, get back!” he heard LeFou call, urgent.

“My father’s hurt! I’m not leaving him!” One hand gripped the lapel of Gaston’s jacket and yanked, forcing Gaston to look at him. “What is it? What do you need?”

“Gaston, let’s go!” LeFou shouted again and Gaston could tell he was scared, terrified even. But he couldn’t leave his father behind, he wouldn’t leave his father behind.

“You… disgust me,” he told him, between gasps for air.

Gaston’s eyebrow twitched. “What?” he breathed.

“You’re going to get all… your men _killed_.”

“I’m trying to save you!”

“I don’t need a worthless fuck like you to save me.” He grunted and Gaston felt like breaking down.

“Can’t you just be a good person for _once_ in your fucking life?! You’re dying!”

“And this is the happier I’ve been with you and your slut mother in my life.”

“Gaston!”

“Tell her I know about all of her escapades.”

Gaston trembled, eyes brimming with tears. Everything became too much — the cannons and the triggers being pulled and LeFou’s panicked shouts and the way the hate in his father’s eyes didn’t fade away with his life.

Someone yanked at his arm and pulled him away, dragging him from the ranks and through the grass. LeFou. He helped him up and lead him into his tent, then sat him down. Gaston didn’t move. He was shaking from the shock, sobbing quietly. LeFou put a soft blanket — the one his grandmother had knitted — over him and kissed his forehead. “You’re safe here. I’ll get you some tea and bread,” he told him, pulling the corners of the blanket together over Gaston’s heaving chest. “Do you want soup?”

Gaston didn’t reply, eyes fixed on the sandy ground beneath his feet. His heart hammered in his chest and he was starting to have trouble breathing. He whimpered when LeFou’s hands left his arms.

“I’m just going for food, I’ll be back.”

Gaston nodded. He sobbed again and hid his face in his hands, elbows resting on his thighs. At first, he didn’t cry. The tears that had stayed unfallen all that time finally fell, yes, but he didn’t cry. At least not until he heard his mother scream in pain, “ _Pierre_!”

That was the only trigger Gaston needed for a breakdown. Crying and sobbing as he gasped for air and rocked back and forth slowly.

“Where’s my son?! Is Gaston alright?!” He looked up from his hands, finding his mother bursting into his tent with a bloodied dress and hands. “Are you hurt?” she asked through tears.

Gaston shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he managed through gasps.

“Oh, no, no. No, darling. It’s not your fault.”

“I killed him,” he sobbed. “I killed him. He was right. He was right, I can’t do anything right.”

“Gaston, look at me.” He did, blinking away tears. “I love you.” She kissed his forehead, leaving a smudge of red lipstick behind. “You’re loved,” she told him and Gaston nodded, still crying. “I want you to listen to me, Gaston.”

“Yes?”

“You’re the best in Villeneuve. You’re better than everyone else. You _are_.” Gaston blinked. He began to calm down. “Your father told you lies. That’s all they were. _Lies_. Because you, my dear, are the smartest, bravest, most incredible person I’ve _ever_ seen. LeFou tells you the same, no?”

He nodded. “He does.”

“And you trust us.”

Another nod. “I do.”

“So, believe me. Your father didn’t know you. LeFou and I, though, we know you.” Gaston nodded, letting out a sigh. “Besides, you’re the first seventeen-year-old to become captain in France. If that’s not incredible, I don’t know what is.”

Gaston nodded again. “I love you, maman.”

She smiled and hugged him, running a slim hand up and down his spine.

“Madame Le— Mademoiselle,” LeFou corrected himself as he walked inside with a metal tray in hand. “Here you go, Gaston. Soup, bread, cheese. I asked for a bit of wine, too,” he said, pouring some of the wine into the metal cup that rested on the tray. “Here.”

Gaston’s mother stood next to him, hand in his hair to soothe him. She gave LeFou a smile of relief; Gaston could tell despite the tears in her eyes. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, LeFou.”

He smiled shyly and shrugged. “It’s nothing. Your son only deserves the best.” He cut a slice of cheese with a small penknife and put it on a thick slice of bread with the help of the blade.

“And that’s you, my friend,” Gaston said. He had finally begun cheering up, but still felt a pit in his stomach, which only deepened when he saw the silhouette of his father’s corpse by his tent.

“They’re burying him tonight,” LeFou told him. His mother had left; she was needed in the doctor’s tent.

Gaston nodded and finished the soup. He still trembled under the blanket. “Do you want to finish the wine with me?” he asked, pouring some of the drink for himself.

LeFou gave him a shrug as reply. “Sure. Why not?” He finished smoothing down the sheets in Gase sheets of Gaston’s bed and dragged the chair in front of his desk to sit next to his friend. Gaston handed him a glass and LeFou eyed it. Then he looked at Gaston, both hands around the glass. “Shall we drink to something?”

Gaston hummed. “Our friendship,” he suggested with a smile, raising his glass.

LeFou grinned. “Sounds good.” They clinked their glasses together then chugged down their drinks. “You know,” he said, as Gaston put his glass down to refill it, “I _really_ want to say I feel bad for your father.”

“You want to…?”

“Yes. But I’m not. ...He deserved it.”

Gaston looked at him. He knew it was true, but it still hurt. “He’s my father, LeFou.”

“I know. Nevermind, that was… stupid.”

“No. No, it’s fine. Why do you think he deserved it?” he asked, taking gulps from the wine and ignoring the bad memories settled back in his mind.

“He hurt you. You don’t deserve that. I’ve told you so before.”

Gaston smiled a sad, defeated smile and nodded. “Thank you.”

“I… care for you and about you. I just want the best for you, Gaston.”

The sad smile widened and brightened up into a grin. “ _You_ ’re the best,” he said, placing his hand on LeFou’s shoulder and shaking it a bit. LeFou smiled back, cheeks flushed pink.


	6. 18

Gaston sighed as he opened the door to the tavern, holding it to let his friends come in as well as some bit of unbidden rain. The battle had been rough and so, when Dick suggested a trip to the town’s tavern, everyone agreed with enthusiasm.

Gaston sighed, smiling at how warm it was, compared to the freezing storm outside. Civilians filled the tavern, as well as some soldiers that had gotten there right after the battle ended.

“Gaston, my Captain!” Jean the potter greeted him with faux fondness, as Gaston took off his jacket and sat in the chair by the fireplace; once his father's now his. And while Gaston herited that, his father had left the tavern to Jean. He wasn’t too bitter about it, once he had told him he just wanted to be a hunter.

“Monsieur Jean,” he replied with a forced smile. “LeFou, you can sit here. Tell the others to bring chairs.” He turned back to Jean. “Get us a small table, yeah?”

“Of course, sir. But, before that,” he said, that half-hearted smile making Gaston feel sick without even touching alcohol, “how's your mother?”

“Jean,” Gaston said, taking in a breath, “my mother is a very happy woman. Whatever she did during my childhood won't repeat itself, alright?”

The fake grin dropped in a second and he nodded. “A table coming right up for you gentlemen.”

“Thank you, Jean,” LeFou said, mispronouncing his name on purpose, and sitting by Gaston’s side. “Is he really still trying to fuck your mother?”

“Mhm,” Gaston said with tightly pressed lips. “Moving on!” He sat back in his chair and waited for Stanley to sit down. “Beer for all, I'm assuming?”

“I want grog, actually,” Tom said.

“Alright. LeFou, be a darling and get us some,” he told him, hand to his arm.

LeFou nodded, blinking. “Okay.” He jumped off his seat and Gaston watched him walk to the bar to ask for drinks.

“How do you do that?” Stanley asked.

Gaston turned to him. “Do what?”

He sat up and pointed at LeFou with his hand. “Get him to do everything for you. It's like… if you asked him to get you the rarest diamond in the world, he'd do it without question.”

Gaston shrugged, giving LeFou a glance. “He's my friend.”

“So are we, and we don't do that.” Dick smacked him lightly. “What?!”

“You don't have to explain anything, Gaston.”

Gaston raised an eyebrow but shrugged it off. LeFou sat down with steins in his hands and set them on the small table Jean had put there shortly before he arrived. “Here you go,” he said, sitting back on the small bench next to Gaston’s chair. “What do you want to do?”

“Blackjack,” Stanley suggested excitedly. Gaston scoffed. Poor kid hadn’t had a chance to play the game with them, being only able to watch them as they got drunk and bet things like their own house (usually that someone was Gaston, who was incredibly lucky).

“Blackjack it is,” he finally said. “We’ll need some extra fun, though. How about… the loser pays a round to everyone.”

“That’s what I’d call ‘reckless behavior’,” Tom said with a smirk as he drew a deck of cards from his pocket. “I’m in.”

“We know I am and Stanley is, too. Dick?”

He sighed and nodded, finally taking off his hat. “Do I even have a choice?”

Gaston laughed and turned to LeFou, whose elbow rested against the top of Gaston’s chair. “Are you gonna play?”

“Hm? Oh, no. I don’t want to get another chair and if I played like this, it wouldn’t be fair for you,” he said, smiling.

“Thank you for being such a good friend,” Gaston said, faking being moved, as he patted LeFou’s knee. It earned laughter from the four men and Gaston grinned. “Very well. Dick, you shuffle, Tom gives them out. Stanley, you can start.”

They did as Gaston told them, Gaston himself leaning back and sipping his beer, accepting his cards when given. Although laughter and conversation filled the tavern, Gaston managed to focus well and at the end of four games (and eight beers) he still stood as the winner.

“How, how are you so _good_?” Stanley complained, as he opened his wallet to take out a few coins to pay the next round.

“Easy, my friend. Lucky at cards, unlucky at love,” he said with a grin without missing a beat. Besides being better at blackjack than his friends, it seemed he was the one who could handle his alcohol better as well. Even LeFou, with whom he drank occasionally, was leaning his head against Gaston’s shoulder and drunkenly mumbling something Gaston ignored about how good he smelled.

“Huh. S-so, you’re good at this… because you don’t have a wife. Is that, is that it?”

Dick let out a hiccup and shook his head. “No, dummy. He doesn’t have a wife, or, or a lover, _because_ he’s good at this!”

Stanley sat silent for awhile, eyes fixed on his coins that were picked up by the waitress and replaced by five steins. “Shit,” he finally said, looking up at Gaston.

“I don’t need a wife, anyway. I got LeFou,” he said with a shrug, shuffling the cards and then handing them to Tom. Out of the four, Tom was the second best at handling his drink. Which was exactly why Gaston appreciated drinking with him.

“I’m, I’m your wife?” LeFou asked, confusion evident in his drunken features, looking up at Gaston.

“Well, no.” Gaston took his cards and then a gulp from his beer. “But you’re like one. You know, we spend a lot of time together, you practically live in my tent.” He shrugged. “It’s normal close friends things.”

LeFou hummed happily and threw an arm around Gaston’s chest. “You, you have a good…”

Gaston shushed him urgently. “Don’t screw me over, LeFou.”

“I was… I was gonna say you have a good chest, actually,” he corrected himself messily. “That sounded bad,” he mumbled.

“Just be quiet, yeah?”

He nodded and closed his eyes. Gaston hissed mid-game when he bit into the flesh of the tip of his thumb too harshly. It was a nervous habit he had, one that he now had committed one too many times, his thumb had begun bleeding a little.

“Shit,” he mumbled, sucking the blood away before playing.

LeFou, beyond drunk and sleepy, took Gaston’s hand in his and kissed the small wound. “There. It’s _all_ better.” Then pressed another kiss to Gaston’s cheek, and finally went back to cuddling against Gaston’s side.

None of the other men mentioned anything, possibly because they were too drunk to pay attention to anything besides their game, and Gaston himself was starting to feel the numbness alcohol brings, too much to even comment on what had happened.

Once the game was over, Gaston patted LeFou’s arm. He grumbled.

“Come on, LeFou. We need to go to camp,” he said, slurring down some of his words and helping LeFou up.

“Dick, Dick is passed, passed out,” LeFou said, still clinging to Gaston. “Maybe! Maybe, we should _all_ take a, a nap.”

Stanley groaned and rubbed his eye. “C-Captain, sir,” he said through hiccups, “please do let us stay in the, the…”

“The inn?” Tom asked, blinking away the dizziness.

“Yes! Yes, the, the _inn_. That’s such a nice word if you think about it. Inn.”

Gaston took in a breath and nodded. “Alright. But we all need to wake up early tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes,” Tom said, waving his hand.

Luckily enough, the inn wasn’t too much of a long way from the tavern. They filled the night with slurred war songs interrupted with laughter and stories about “that one time Stanley got so scared of a cannon he lost his consciousness”.

“Captain?” the owner of the inn greeted, utterly confused at seeing them there.

Gaston giggled. “Yes, we need, um…” He looked at his friends, sitting at the table. “How many are, are we?!” he yelled, startling LeFou to the point of sitting up straight.

He counted them on his fingers. “Four. Four!”

“Four rooms,” Gaston told the innkeeper, with a drunken nod.

“There are five of you, sir,” he corrected.

“Oh, whatever, I’ll sleep with LeFou.”

“Alright, sir.” He scribbled something on a blurry paper and then turned to get Gaston four equally blurry keys. “Four rooms. All next to each other.”

“Thank you, good man!” He turned to the four men and called them.

“Jesus Christ, Gaston, lower your voice!” Dick complained, walking up to him with Tom by his side.

Gaston handed him two keys and then walked up to the table Stanley rested his head on. “Here’s your key. Huh, LeFou, you’ll come with… with me.”

LeFou smiled at him dreamily and got up, stumbling. Gaston caught him and helped him walk upstairs, although drunk himself. He struggled to open the door at first, but after a few pushes he managed to get the job done. LeFou fell to the king sized bed and hummed. Gaston locked the door with a mix of a yawn and a burp. LeFou laughed and turned to lie on his back. “ _So_ ,” LeFou started as Gaston put his jacket over a chair.

“What?”

LeFou sat up, smiling at Gaston. “Any _special_ reason to have me in your, your room, Captain?”

Gaston sobered up slightly at the realization that the smirk in LeFou’s lips was as flirtatious as much as drunken. Gaston laughed. “I’m sure we’re both too drunk to... do any of that, right now,” he said, undressing his waistcoat.

“Hm, maybe.” He moved closer to Gaston, helping him out of his white shirt. Gaston didn’t know what made him do it; if the alcohol, if just the way LeFou was looking at him with those dark eyes, but now he had kissed him hard and there was absolutely nothing he could do to take it back.

“Stop teasing.”

“But, sir, I haven’t done anything.”

Gaston rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips, and kissed him again, longer this time. LeFou whined, lying down and pulling at Gaston’s breeches. Gaston withdrew to catch his breath only to have LeFou hiccup. He chuckled. “Are you alright?”

He nodded, hiccuping again. “G-got nerv— nervous.”

Gaston laughed again, kissing him on the cheek quick. “Perhaps we should leave this to another time,” he suggested, sitting up and kicking off his boots.

LeFou whined and pouted. “But I, I want it _now_.”

“You’re hiccuping, my dear friend.”

“A-and?!”

“I’m not going to fuck you while you’re like that,” Gaston said, oddly matter-of-factly, and lied down next to LeFou.

“ _Fine_! ...Can I at least get another kiss?” he asked, slumping down on the bed until he was lying as well.

Gaston smirked. “Sure.” This one was softer, gentler. LeFou put his hand to Gaston’s cheek and sighed, followed by a hiccup. Gaston snorted a laugh.

Ignoring it, LeFou whispered, “I love you, Gaston.”

Gaston scoffed and turned around to go to sleep. He heard LeFou sigh and glanced at him. His curls framed his face nicely, his eyelids fluttering a little as LeFou fell fast asleep. His nose and cheeks were flushed a healthy pink — both from arousal and inebriation, Gaston guessed. It was his turn to sigh.

He smiled softly, already half asleep, when LeFou put his arm over Gaston, burying his nose in Gaston’s hair.


	7. 19

He was awoken by shouts from outside of the tent, angry yells that would make anyone’s head hurt. Gaston sat up, rubbed his eyes, and went on to get himself dressed and ready for another day at battle. The shouts didn’t stop, though, each one louder and more furious than the last. He chugged down his leftover beer and headed outside, wiping the little alcohol that spilled to his sleeve. “What’s happening?” he asked LeFou, who stood fairly close to his tent with a quite angry expression.

“That _asshole_ ,” he said the insult loudly enough for the man yelling to hear, “is trying to convince everyone you’re not a good captain.”

Gaston frowned. “What, why?”

LeFou took in a breath and exhaled slowly. “Because you’re Jewish.”

Gaston scoffed. “Are you serious?”

“There he is!”

 _Great_ , Gaston thought to himself as a short elderly man made his way to him. He had no memory of seeing him in battle before, but then again Gaston wasn’t the best with details. “Yes, here I am, after you woke me up with your _shouting_.”

“Quiet, you heathen!”

Gaston laughed. “Heathen? Really? That’s the best insult you got?” He turned to his soldiers, most of which were rolling their eyes at the old man. “Are you really going to listen to _him_? Instead of your captain?”

“Why would we listen to you?” another older man said, although not as old as the other. While the latter was around eighty, this appeared to be on his mid fifties. “You’re a Jew, ain’t you?”

Gaston blinked. He could scarcely believe he was really going to have this argument so later in life. “Yeah. When did you find that out?”

“Righ’ now.”

“Does that make me a bad captain? Was I a bad captain before you all found out about it?”

The man didn’t reply and Gaston scoffed. “He ain’t even a good Jew! Doesn’t have a penny!” the older man yelled, pointing at Gaston with an accusing finger.

“I _do_ have money, you worthless—”

LeFou gripped at his sleeve and yanked before he could finish. “Deep breaths,” he mouthed.

Gaston rolled his eyes but did as suggested. “Moving on! Everyone get ready for battle.”

“No!” the man yelled once more and Gaston was one second away from beating him to death. “We ain’t leaving until you quit! And an honest, Catholic, _real_ Frenchman replaces you.”

“Oh, and why aren’t I a real Frenchman? Please do tell me.”

“Jews ain’t from France, we all know that!”

“My mother is a Frenchwoman, born and raised, so was my father. And just like all of you, I was born in Villeneuve.” Gaston’s top lip quivered, his hands clenching into fists.

“That doesn’t mean anything!” the men went on. “You’re still a kike and you have _no right_ in being captain!”

A muscle near the corner of Gaston’s eye twitched. “I’m a _what_?”

“A kike! What, besides being Jewish, you’re deaf as well?” He laughed. Everyone else, though, stayed in silence.

“Oh, no. No, I heard perfectly well. You, however, I’m afraid won’t be able to say shit like that once I’m done with you,” he said, grabbing the man by the lapel of his coat.

“Gaston, breathe,” LeFou whispered.

“No! No, I won’t fucking breathe! Alright?! I want all of you to listen to me!” he shouted, turning to everyone present. “I tolerate a _lot_ of shit, and I have since I was young, but if _any_ of you fucking calls me or my mother or _any_ other person like us a k... What he said!, I will _hunt you down_!” He swallowed thickly, angrily. “My grandfather had to hear all of that shit in Lyon when he was beaten to death by the likes of you,” he growled at the old man. “I won’t.” He threw him to the ground, making his spine do some sickly sound when he hit the dirt. Gaston then turned to everyone else. “All of you, back to your tents! Prepare yourselves for battle!” He stumped back to his tent throwing an empty bottle of wine and an old rusty stein to the floor in a bout of anger.

LeFou followed him, of course, and in no time Gaston was hearing him close the tent behind him. “Gaston.”

“ _What_?! Are you here to tell me you don’t want anything to do with me?!”

“No. I’ve known about your beliefs and ethnicity since we were children. It didn’t make me hate you then, it won’t make me hate you now. Sit down, alright?”

Gaston didn’t move, breathing heavily with tears pricking his eyes. “I thought this was fucking _over_. You know? That, that _I_ wouldn’t have to hear the shit my father heard when he moved to the village. The shit my mother still has to hear from the men _she_ saves! Or tries to, anyway! She tells me they all tell they don’t want a Jew taking care of their wounds, surely they’ll go to Hell if she as much as touches them! I… I thought it was over and that I could be captain without hearing that fucking word.” He was crying now, sobbing loudly. LeFou helped him sit down on his bed, kissing his shoulder. “Without people telling me I was worthless.”

“I’ll make sure we see that man gone from the army. You don’t deserve someone like that calling you incompetent or anything like that word.”

Gaston sobbed and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He murmured a thanks when LeFou handed him a neatly folded handkerchief and blew his nose to it, folding it messily after. “I just thought I’d get better treatment than them. Especially after the fucking king of France told us we were welcome here.”

“A king’s law doesn’t exactly represent everyone’s views. And I’m sorry about that. And about your grandfather.”

Gaston sighed. “Thank you. Really.”

The tent opened and three men came in barging. “Gaston, you alright? We heard the bullshit that man was spewing,” Tom said, walking to him.

Stanley nodded. “He didn’t have any right to say those things.”

Gaston smiled, something genuine and thankful.

“And we’re sorry about your grandfather, we had no idea,” Dick added.

“Yeah, that was _terrible_. I can’t imagine how you feel,” Tom said.

“Much better now that all four of you are here,” he said with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Oh, next time I hear anyone say that word I’ll kick them!” Stanley said with a firm nod.

That made Gaston chortle. “You? You’ll kick them?”

“You bet! I’m perfectly capable of it,” he defended himself.

Gaston laughed. “Sure you are. But, really, all jokes aside, thank you, all of you.”

LeFou put his hand to Gaston’s arm. “I think I speak for all of us when I say you don’t have to thank us. We’re our friends, and it’s what friends do. We have each other’s backs.”

Gaston smiled and shrugged. “Still. I never kicked anyone for…” he trailed off, remembering his childhood and the often occurrences of him hurting people for hurting his friend. “Well… I might have kicked a _few_ people back in the day.”

“They sent a fifteen-year-old to the doctor because you broke his arm. At _twelve_.”

“I was a strong child! And I owe it all to the eggs.”

They all shared a laugh. “Really, you still all those eggs?”

“Ask LeFou!”

“He does,” LeFou said, nodding. They all laughed again and Gaston began to relax. Especially with LeFou’s soothing hand to his arm, that slipped away when Tom told his best dirty joke and LeFou had to cover up his mouth to avoid laughing too loud.

Gaston wished the war was just that. Sure, he had come for the nice uniform and the eventual ladies that would fall to his feet once he was a certified war hero — something he daydreamed about every night, managing to fall asleep with a cocky smirk on his face even with the cries of the wounded soldiers filling the air — but then he realized how terrible war actually was. And now he found himself daydreaming about sharing a warm, _good_ meal in the tavern with LeFou instead of all the women that he would woo once the war once over. (Although he _did_ think about the latter quite often.)


	8. 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i took so long to update i'm really busy with school and it's harder to write this because it requires google docs and i can't be on my phone during class (not that i'm not but i never manage to write during class rip!)

Gaston was used to triggers being pulled and cannons being fired by now. But when the product of a bullet hitting its target is anything else other than a male shout, he got alarmed. Even more so when the yell sounded too familiar. With wide, fearful eyes, he turned around, finding his mother fallen on the ground, clinging to her side. “Maman!”

No one stopped him from dropping his weapon and running to her, not the soldiers in the back who were thrown to the ground by Gaston, not his mother herself who kept telling him to “go back” and that she was alright.

“Where were you shot?” he asked urgently, tears already beginning to well in his eyes.

“My stomach but it’s alright. I’m alright. You have a war to win, sweetheart.”

“No! No, no. You can’t…” He sobbed. “You can’t go.” Gaston helped her up to her feet carefully, just like LeFou would do when he himself got injured, then walked with her to the doctor’s tent. “Sir! My, my mother was hurt. Can you please try and do something?”

The doctor nodded feverently and helped him lead his mother to a nearby empty bed, still somewhat tainted with blood. She didn’t wince when the sticky red fluid touched her naked arm skin. Gaston glanced at the tent’s opening. He knew he had to go and fight, like his mother had told him, he had a war to win, but at the same time the thought of losing his mother and not being next to her in her last moments was absolutely heartbreaking. It was only when she put her frail hand to his arm and said “You can go, everything will be alright.” that he nodded and left to battle.

LeFou stood outside the tent, rain dripping from the hem of his hat. “Gaston, what happened?”

He pulled the lapels of his jacket together to better protect himself from the rain that had begun to fall. “My mother was shot. The doctor is taking care of her now but…”

“I’m so sorry. I hope she survives.”

Gaston nodded. “Thank you.”

The concentration needed in battle was such, Gaston had almost completely forgotten about the incident, too focused now on winning. About ten men lied dead next to him and Gaston was reminded of his early years in the war — how he would have cried about the deaths, worried his men would hate him for not being able to save those they lost —, smirking when he realized how far he had come now. Not even the blown open head of one of their men that lied right in front of him could get him upset.

Though, he thought to himself and only to himself, that might have been because he was repressing everything. It was a good tactic he had learned over the years. It helped him sleep at night and not worry about how he would have nightmares about it, and it was incredibly simple. All he needed was a bottle of whiskey and sleep. The alcohol would wash away the unnecessary pain and memories, the sleep would make him not remembering anything definitive.

The enemy captain yelled something close to their “retrieve” and Gaston grinned proudly. He got to his feet and put his rifle to his back, then helped the soldiers that hadn’t given into death up to their feet. With a friendly pat in the back, Gaston sent them to camp, to the tent dinner would be served in.

Gaston himself walked to his own tent to change jackets and leave his rifle near his bed. He found LeFou at his desk, counting money on his fingers and scribbling down tally marks on a paper. “How was battle?” he asked, as Gaston changed waistcoat as well, without taking his eyes off the paper.

“Alright. Not our best one, but the captain pulled them back before us,” Gaston told, wiping the dirt from his boots with a soiled rag. He put it back in the small basin and took out a clean cloth that lied on the table his empty bottles stood to dry his nape, neck, and face. “What are you counting?”

LeFou hummed and finished his work. Then he put the quill back into the ink box and rested his chin on his hand. “Money. You know, to see how much we can spend in these upcoming weeks.”

“Ah. Well, shall we?” he asked, standing up and putting on his jacket.

“I mean, as much I’d love to go have dinner with you, Gaston, what about your mother?”

He frowned at LeFou, confused. “What about my—” The frown fell and was replaced by an expression of realization. Realization, that is, and _utter fear_. “Shit!” He ran to the doctor’s tent, a couple of quarters over his own, erupting like a hurricane, letting the rain fall in and wet the soil beneath the beds and nurses. His chest heaved, Gaston absolutely terrified of what could have happened. “Maman,” he breathed when he found her lying on the same bed he had left her. But she was terribly pale now, and her chest barely move. No, it didn’t move at all. “D-doctor,” he stammered, and the older man frowned in concern. Gaston was known for never stammering or stuttering or even babbling. “Is she…” He took in a breath, wiping a wayward tear to the cuff of his jacket. “Is… is she dead?”

The doctor glanced at the pale woman Gaston stared at. Her hair, jet black and curly just like Gaston’s, was nicely framing her head, making her look like some kind of saint the Catholics worshipped. Her skin was devoid of any color, but her lips and cheeks remained vibrantly red and pink respectively from the makeup she applied. She seemed as if she was asleep, and in that Gaston found peace.

He leaned in, hooked a finger under a thin silver string, and pulled at it, revealing an elegantly forged Star of David. He adjusted it so the necklace and its pendant would sit neatly below her collarbone.

“My condolences, Captain,” was all the doctor said. Gaston, in return, gave him a nod.

“Make sure she’s buried away from my father. Give her a Jewish funeral, I’m sure there’s another of our faith in this army.”

The man nodded and Gaston walked away. His chest hurt and so did his head. His eyes prickled with tears that stayed unfallen. It’s not that he didn’t want to cry (although, to be fair, he did not), but rather that he was incapable of such. All that time of bottling up emotions and drinking the pain away only made it so he couldn’t cry at times like that. The only thing he could do was reach for a frustratingly half empty bottle of red wine and chug it down without taking more than two breaths. He shook his head, the alcohol going to his brain faster than usual. He cleared his throat and walked out of his tent to go have dinner. “LeFou!” he greeted cheerfully, his signature grin plastered on his face, hand on LeFou’s shoulder.

“Gaston, hi” he replied, mouth full with the vegetable stew they were served.

“Good evening!” he said, taking a chair to sit next to LeFou, right by the edge of the table. Withdrawing his hand, he took a deep breath and thanked the man who gave him a metal bowl with a strange mush the cooker called soup.

“Are you alright?” LeFou asked as he reached for the bread and tore a piece with his fingers. “How’s your mother?”

Gaston’s grin faded, a sneer replacing it. He took in a breath and ate a spoonful of the soup, then smiled forcibly. “She’s, huh, she’s dead.” He ate another spoonful as if it meant nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” LeFou said, himself frozen.

Gaston shook his head. “No reason to be, my friend. Death is inevitable. What happened to her could have happened to any of us!” he said, dipping a chunk of bread into the soup. “Now, shall we get some beer?”

“No, no, we shan’t.” Gaston blinked at him. “You’re already drunk, I’m not giving you any more alcohol.”

Gaston scoffed. “I am not drunk.”

“You’re blushing and your breath smells like wine,” LeFou interrupted him. “I’m worried about you, alright?”

“Why? My father’s been dead for a year, my mother just died, and I’m dealing with it fine!”

“Fine? I’ve lost count of the number of bottles I’ve refilled for you!”

Gaston stared at LeFou with fire burning in his eyes. “Am I dead?”

“Wh— No.”

“Then I’m dealing with it _fine_. Tom!”

“You called?!” Tom shouted from two tables over.

“Get me a beer, would you?!”

“Comin’ right up!”

Gaston smirked at LeFou, who rolled his eyes. “Are you seriously getting drunk to piss me off?”

“Of course not! I’m getting drunk to forget whatever happened to my mother _and_ to annoy you.”

LeFou huffed. “Honest to _God_ , Gaston, sometimes you’re such a little shit.”

“Never heard that one before. Oh, wait, nevermind. I _have_! From my father.”

LeFou didn’t speak for a bit, simply stared at Gaston. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t compare me to your father. I’d never hurt you.”

“And _I_ ’d appreciate it if you stopped policing my drinking. You’re supposed to support me, not judge me.” He murmured a thanks when Tom set his beer down, and watched him leave when he realized how heavy the tension was between his two friends.

“I don’t judge you,” he said, as Gaston chugged down the beer for no other reason than to bother LeFou. “I’m concerned. I want the best for you, Gaston, and this is _not it_.”

He slammed the metal stein on the wooden table. “I know what is the best for me,” he growled, breath stinking of alcohol.

“I’m your friend, Gaston.”

“I’m going to my tent,” he told him, getting up abruptly.

“Gaston.”

It was pouring now and Gaston arrived to his tent soaking wet, his clothes sticking to his skin with rain. He took off his jacket and waistcoat, and moved to change his shirt. Halfway through buttoning up a clean one, he looked over his desk. A shiny, neatly clean, silver necklace lied next to his — LeFou’s — quill. Tears pricked his eyes once again. With careful hands, he picked it up, then lit the candelabra on this desk. Turning the small Star of David with his fingers, he felt the letters carved in the metal. _“What does it say?” “It’s my name. Sophie. ...Or at least your father said so.”_ He clutched the figure in one hand, the sharp points piercing into his skin.

“May I?” The familiar smooth voice that spoke in something barely above a whisper managed to be louder than the rain.

“Yes,” he said quickly, slipping the necklace into his breeches’ pocket. “LeFou,” he greeted, right hand on the desk for support.

“I’m sorry for fighting with you publicly.”

Gaston nodded as he reached for a bottle. He shook it to see how full it was, then shrugged at LeFou and opened the bottle. “It’s alright,” he said before finishing what little wine was left. He let out a sigh. “I… apologize,” he mumbled, “as, as well.”

“Are you alright?”

Gaston scratched his cupid’s bow with his thumbnail. “Not really.” He turned to LeFou, who looked at him with a saddened, worried look in his eyes. “My mother just died and I wasn’t… I wasn’t even _near_ her when it happened.” He shrugged once more. “But I’ll deal with it.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

Gaston bit his lip to avoid tears, staring down at his desk again. “No. No, don’t say that. If anything it was my fault.” He took in a breath, chest bulging underneath his half-open shirt. Then exhaled through his nose, as he ran the back of his hand under his eyes. “You should take off that jacket,” Gaston suggested. “It’s soaking wet.”

“Hm? Oh.” LeFou did as told and put it next to Gaston’s. He sat on his messily made bed, looking up at him. They stared at each other, eyes locked, none of them speaking.

“I really… do apologize… for all the, all the bullshit I said earlier.” He opened his mouth to justify said actions but LeFou interrupted him.

“I know. And I understand,” he said with a faint nod. “You were hurt by your mother’s death and fighting with me was the only way to let that pain out.”

Gaston raised his eyebrows, surprised at how accurately LeFou’s reasoning was, and nodded. “Usually I just drink until I pass out or stab the table,” he tried to joke. LeFou didn’t smile.

“I… I love you, Gaston. And… while I understand why we fought, it still hurt.”

Gaston sighed. He turned around to find another bottle, whiskey perhaps, and opened it once in his hands. Unceremoniously, he drank a good portion of it — just enough so he could actually say he was sorry without stuttering. “This, this wasn’t to… annoy you,” he explained, putting the bottle back down and turning to LeFou. “I’m, I’m sorry. That I, hurt you, I mean.”

“...Why do you need to drink to apologize?”

Gaston didn’t speak. He shrugged. “I’m not… I’m not used to, to genuinely apologize... to someone who isn’t beating the shit out of me, I guess.” His upper body shook with a hiccup. “Pardon. I’m usually… used to…” — another hiccup — “Fuck. I don’t know why this is happening.” LeFou smiled softly and Gaston stumbled to sit on the bed next to him. He put his hand to LeFou’s knee and patted it gently. “You’ll… you’ll do what we promised, right?”

“And what was that?”

“Leave if, if I hurt you.” When LeFou didn’t reply, simply looked at Gaston with a faint smile and tears in his eyes that stayed unfallen, Gaston moved his hand to LeFou’s shoulder. “You promised.”

“I know,” he whispered.

Gaston blinked at him and let out a breath. Hand now to LeFou’s cheek, stubble prickling Gaston’s skin slightly, he repeated, “You’ll do it.”

“I’ll try,” LeFou murmured, leaning into Gaston’s oddly soft touch.

“LeFou,” he called, letting his hand fall on his lap.

“I… Okay.”

“Promise me.”

LeFou looked at his boots for a while then at Gaston. “I promise.” Tears rolled gently down LeFou’s cheeks, and he darted his tongue out to lick away the ones that fell on his lips. He wiped his tears to his sleeve and then smiled gently at Gaston. “I… I know what it’s like. To lose everyone close to you,” he said, placing his hand on top of Gaston’s. “And… holding it down like you do and blaming yourself and refusing to cry… None of it is good. It’s not your fault, Gaston. And it’s alright to cry, I promise. It’s alright to mourn.” Gaston scoffed and LeFou sighed. “I knew you’d do something like that. But trust me, it’s alright.”

“I have to… sleep. Sleep away the, the drunk.”

LeFou smiled at him. “Alright. I’ll be in my tent.”

Gaston nodded. He pulled his sleeve up and scratched his arm roughly as soon as LeFou left in some kind of attempt to make him let go of the hurt, other than to shout at someone he loved or break his things. He took a few deep breaths. More than a hundred men had died over the last two years of war. Gaston grieved only one person, and it was a nurse. He let out a dry chuckle, tears prickling his eyes. He hissed when he scratched too harshly, blood getting under his fingernails.

The storm outside was as strong as ever, wind creeping in and making the candlelight waver. Gaston watched, nails still raking his skin although now softer.

The worst of all — of war, of the deaths of his men, of the deaths of the _enemy_ ’s men —, Gaston thought to himself as he lied down, the alcohol beginning to make him feel light-headed and tired, was that he didn’t regret a thing and that he didn’t feel bad about the men whose lives had been lost. To him, they were nothing but pawns. Nothing but things he used to win the war. Or at least, all of them except LeFou. Of course he cared about Tom, Dick, and even Stanley, but LeFou… LeFou was something else. Something more.

And so, with those thoughts of depressive, borderline sociopathic self-discovery, and the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance, he drifted off to sleep, slightly afraid of the hangover to come.


	9. 19

They stepped through the village’s gates, the people of Villeneuve awaiting for them in the streets, by their windows, in their shops, with wide eyes and opened mouths. Gaston, of course, was the first. He sat on his black stallion, dark hat on his head, his chest bulging and his smirk pure cockiness. LeFou followed suit, as the aide-de-camp, riding his shaggy pony, brown hat sitting atop his tied back hair as well. He, however, didn’t wear an arrogant smile; just one of raw admiration towards the man in front of him.

“They’re back!” a woman yelled. Gaston just sat up straighter, hand tightening around the rope he had tied around the enemy leader’s neck — a Major General ( _géneral de division_ ) that had stayed hidden away during the entirety of the war; after torture the enemy captain had told them everything. He stopped Henri when they reached the town’s square, right in front of his father’s — Jean’s — tavern.

Up from his horse, he eyed everyone at his feet with faux disinterest in his eyes. LeFou stopped his pony besides Gaston. He smiled at him, something soft and warm, and Gaston couldn’t help feeling immediately relaxed. He gave him a small smile in return, one that could be easily mistaken by others to be a presumptuous smirk. “Call the Prince!” he said, voice booming. “Tell him we’ve won this war.”

Everyone cheered. Hats were thrown in the air, hands were clapped, people were hugged, and tears were shed. Gaston simply watched everything with a grin, hand twisting around the mock leash around the enemy’s neck. “Will you let me go?” he asked, in slightly broken French.

Gaston let out a breath and looked down at him. “We’ll let you go when the Prince arrives. Perhaps.” Then he took off his hat and put it inside the bag tied to his horse’s side.

 

The Prince arrived in a golden coach, decorated with leaf patterns and shades of blue here and there. Gaston watched with scorn as the Prince’s coachman, a chubby, elderly man, jumped off his seat and opened the heavy door. He scoffed as a blue highheel stepped out of the coach. The Prince was so utterly dramatic, it was honestly sad. (But then again, this was Gaston, who sat atop his horse on full uniform with his hand wrapped a rope used to choke the enemy. He couldn’t exactly speak about being dramatic.)

The Prince snapped his gloved fingers. Gaston exchanged confused looks with LeFou, who turned around to muffle a laugh.

“Are you expecting me to do something, Your Majesty?” Gaston said with an amused smirk.

“Come down from your horse.”

Gaston wet his lips and then looked over at LeFou, still smirking. “You heard that, LeFou? He expected me to come down from my horse with a snap of his fingers.”

LeFou snorted a laugh. “Shut up and go,” he whispered, pushing Gaston gently. Gaston did so, and walked up to the Prince, yanking at the rope.

“Your Majesty,” he said, looking into the Prince’s icy eyes and forcing a smile. “We won the war. Just like you told me to.”

The Prince hummed and glanced over at the prisoner. He sneered and looked back at Gaston. “You can untie him.”

Without a word, Gaston moved to undo the knot. He grumbled when he struggled with it and delved into his pocket to grab his penknife, then cut through the rope. “He’s all yours, Your Majesty.”

“Master,” the coachman called and Gaston turned to LeFou, who smiled at him. Gaston let out a breath and turned back to the Prince.

“I’ll be back in… three days,” the Prince said, after the coachman whispered into his ear, “to give you the reward.”

Gaston’s disdain faded and was replaced with pure surprise. “Excuse me,” he called, as the Prince told the coachman to sit the Major General next to him.

“Yes?” the Prince said, turning to him with a stone cold expression. Gaston found it unsettling how hard to read the Prince was.

“What reward?”

The people of Villeneuve still stood around, watching as their Prince and their Captain spoke. A smirk tugged at the Prince’s lips but it vanished immediately. “The reward of winning the war, of course, Captain…”

“Gaston.”

“Gaston. About… How much was it, Cogsworth?”

“If my memory serves me right,” Cogsworth said, “Lumière said the reward was going to be around fifty-five million livres.”

Gaston choked on his spit. “Fifty what?”

“Fifty-five million livres,” Cogsworth repeated.

Gaston nodded and the Prince cleared his throat. “That, of course, and perhaps a little medal.”

Gaston grinned. He could almost physically feel his ego grow. The Prince glanced at Gaston up and down, and entered the coach with a sneer. With a snap of his fingers, Cogsworth was turning around and heading out of Villeneuve.

Gaston walked to his horse and handed the reins to LeFou. “Get him to the stables, yes?”

“Of course. Where will you be?”

Gaston turned his head to glance at a handful of lonely women weeping and then looked back at LeFou. He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Someone has to comfort those poor women.”

“Huh.”

“Don’t be jealous, now, LeFou,” he joked. “You can wait for me at the tavern.”

LeFou let out a frustrated breath and Gaston, completely oblivious as to why his friend was frowning in the grieving women’s directions, gave him a smile full of that Gaston Charm. LeFou relaxed immediately. “To the stables,” he announced with a tired smile, as he spurred his pony’s sides. Gaston grinned at him and LeFou couldn’t help but smile. “Come on, Henri.”

Gaston slicked his hair back with one hand and then pulled at the lapels of his crimson uniform jacket. Puckering his lips, he took in a breath. Then smirked at himself.

He turned around and walked up to the lone mourning woman — the others had left, presumably to the tavern to drink away (and fuck away) their loss. He smiled at her with as much faux compassion as he could muster. She smiled back and gingerly wiped her tears, and smeared makeup, to the meticulously embroidered handkerchief in her pale hand. Gaston took it in his. “What was your husband’s name?”

She sniffed and blinked away tears that were not there. “Lucien-Claude Beaumont.”

He nodded, placing his hand to her face. “Madame Beaumont, I am so sorry for your loss. He was a very brave man.” Gaston was lying through his teeth. Lucien-Claude Beaumont was actually a coward who ran away from battlefield and cried when he accidentally shot a soldier, plain and simple.

She sighed wistfully and looked up at Gaston, darting her tongue over her bottom lip, dark red from whatever makeup she applied there. Gaston smirked down at her, letting his hand move to her delicate neck. “Well, Captain,” she said, putting her hands to his waist, slipping beneath the jacket, “there’s no way he was as brave as you.”

Gaston hummed and eyed the door. “Is this your house?”

“Yes, Captain.”

He grinned at her. “Shall we talk about my bravery upstairs? Perhaps in the bedroom?”

She giggled, something soft and subtly flirtatious. (It reminded him of LeFou when drunk.) “Most definitely.”

 

It was thanks to Madame, now Mademoiselle, Beaumont that Gaston’s fascination with widows began. None of them seemed to have actually loved their husbands and, by the end, all would say something close to “You were so much better”. Gaston absolutely loved it. It was praise after praise after praise, especially when he headed down to the tavern and people bought him drinks and cheered him.

The great Captain Gaston, they called him. And, of course, Gaston _adored_ the title.

One day, the only painter in Villeneuve — besides Maurice, who was a private old man who had gone home and locked himself away with his daughter — offered to paint a mural of Gaston and LeFou on the tavern’s ceiling. Jean had cleared his throat and grumbled something about property damage but shut his mouth completely when Gaston tossed him a small bag full of golden coins.

“Gaston the Victory” the painter had called the mural. Gaston beamed every time he glanced at the ceiling, delighted in seeing how much the people of the town _worshipped_ him. Especially LeFou, always with the same loving look in his eyes as the one in the mural above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll upload the third and last part tomorrow!!


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